


Victorious

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Competition, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rival Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-05-28 06:12:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6317872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'It’s better to know when to surrender,' he suggests, and hopes Ohira won’t notice the way his legs are starting to shake. 'If I were in your position, I would be smart enough to give up.'" Onishi and Ohira have a competition and things get heated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victorious

“You must be feeling like giving up,” Onishi suggests, dragging the words out of his throat past the heat knotting the back of his tongue until it’s hard to offer anything but a moan to the air.

“Not for anything,” Ohira answers back. His eyes are lowered, the dark of his lashes falling heavy against his cheeks; Onishi thinks he has the advantage of composure, for now, but then again Ohira’s movements are still as steady as they were when they started, and he can feel his own breathing coming choppier in his chest with each inhale.

Onishi grits his teeth and braces himself harder against the support of the wall at his shoulder. At least Ohira won’t be able to see the telltale shift of his motion with his eyes cast down to follow the rhythmic drag of his hand over flushed skin. “It’s better to know when to surrender,” he suggests, and hopes Ohira won’t notice the way his legs are starting to shake. “If I were in your position, I would be smart enough to give up.”

Ohira lifts his chin at that, raising his eyes to glare shadows at Onishi. “I can last for hours like this,” he offers, pressing his thumb in against the head of Onishi’s cock as if to punctuate. Onishi’s jaw tightens, his breathing hisses, and Ohira manages a grin, albeit one that looks strained and hard-won. “There’s no glory in giving up a fight that’s not over yet.”

Onishi tilts his head back, holding Ohira’s gaze as he looks down the bridge of his nose with as much haughty condescension as he can muster with his pants open and half-off his hips to allow space for the stroke of Ohira’s hand over the flushed weight of his cock. “Nor is there anything to be gained in expending useless effort,” he remarks. His tone is good, the bite on the words satisfying even over his tongue; it would be the more so if he weren’t warm with heat, if he couldn’t feel the overheated damp of sweat collecting at his hairline to catch strands sticky to his skin. “At least _I_ can rest assured I have the advantage of intelligence.”

“The advantage of cowardice,” Ohira sneers. His hand twists, his fingers tighten; Onishi can feel the friction of the other’s hold all down his spine, can feel the tension of the contact puddling low in his stomach with the weight of something he pushes off, not for the first time, to join the acknowledged cause of the tremor in his hands and the rush of his breathing. “I’ll be happy to give you that one, you’re better at giving up than I am.”

“I’m not giving up,” Onishi protests. He glances down to the dark swell of Ohira’s cock in the grip of his fingers; when he rocks forward it’s to get a better angle on his hold, to brace his thumb so every upward stroke drags friction over the ridged head of Ohira’s cock. Ohira’s skin is flushed darker than his own is, his cock a fraction shorter but noticeably wider; Onishi can’t speak to the advantage of either proportion well enough to claim it as a victory for either of them, and Ohira didn’t argue in favor of one over another either. It’s stamina they agreed on, clearly staying power that is the most important consideration when it comes to sex, and that’s what they’re deciding now, with each of them doing his best to coax an orgasm from the other before capitulating himself.

Ohira’s better than Onishi expected, though he hates to admit it. He was sure he would win this within a matter of minutes, certain that it would take a twist of his wrist and a press of his hip to bring Ohira shuddering to orgasm against him, maybe before the other had ever gotten Onishi’s pants open. But they’ve been at it for a while now, a half hour, Onishi thinks, maybe longer, and the amateurish awkwardness he expected from the other is entirely absent. Ohira’s got good rhythm, Onishi admits in the unstated quiet of his head, a steady pattern to his movements and inspired technique with the angle of his thumb; if Onishi didn’t have a vested interest in lasting, he could have let himself come fifteen minutes ago. But he does, and so he didn’t, focusing instead on the most off-putting things he can imagine -- dirty laundry, the sweaty humidity of a crowded locker room, the dark color of Ohira’s eyes so close to his -- to keep the edge of pleasure at bay.

“You’re not bad at this,” Ohira offers suddenly, apropos of nothing at all. Onishi blinks, returning himself to the present with a jolt of self-awareness, only to find Ohira looking down to watch the rhythm of their hands as they jerk each other off. Onishi has been avoiding looking down as much as possible -- it’s a distraction, that’s all, it draws his mind down paths he’d rather not go -- but if Ohira can take it so can he. He tips his chin down, blinks the haze of heat from his eyes, and lets his vision come into focus on their hands instead. They’ve fallen into a pattern, he realizes, the stroke of his own hand a counterpoint to Ohira’s Onishi didn’t intend but has achieved anyway, and they’re closer than he expected, so near their thumbs are nearly touching on off-strokes. Ohira’s dark in Onishi’s grip, the head of his cock swollen red with the promise of the release the other’s been fighting back, but Onishi’s no better; he’s slick all across the top half-inch, leaking precome under the drag of Ohira’s fingers, and when Ohira’s thumb pushes up and over him he can see another few droplets of liquid spill to meet him.

“I’m impressed,” Ohira says, and Onishi really should look away, he shouldn’t be watching the flex of Ohira’s fingers squeeze sensation over the resistance of his cock but Ohira’s head isn’t lifting and he doesn’t want to give the other the satisfaction of looking away first. He leans closer instead, a dare written into the tilt of his shoulders without requiring the medium of speech to make it explicit, and Ohira meets him, rocking forward until their foreheads are pressed together. Ohira’s damp with sweat too, the flush of heat under his skin sticky where their hair is tangling together; it feels like the prelude to victory, Onishi thinks, it feels like the possibility of winning if he can just endure a little longer. “I didn’t think you’d last this long.”

“I thought you’d come in five minutes,” Onishi admits, sincerity unwinding itself from his tongue without the catch of his attention to hold it back. It’s taking all his focus to fight back the heat cresting in his veins, to push back the tide of sensation rising higher with each drag of Ohira’s fingers; he can feel the ache of the effort in the tense press of his balls against the underside of his cock, the weight of them drawn up into expectation he’s been hovering over for the last ten minutes. “You’ve been a worthy opponent.”

“Don’t talk like you’ve won,” Ohira manages. Onishi can hear the effort on the words, can feel the strain in Ohira’s shoulders as the other hunches in closer, making a cage of his body as if to brace himself against the force of satisfaction. His cock is swelling harder in Onishi’s grip, the weight of it pressing against the other’s hand like it’s trying to gain inches of breadth. “I can see how close you are, you’re going to go any moment.”

“So are you,” Onishi says, but the suggestion of Ohira’s words is enough to drop his gaze to his own cock, to pull his attention around the slick drag of Ohira’s hand over him. His hips buck forward of their own free will to fuck in against the other’s hold, and for a moment the heat in his stomach surges higher, threatening his rationality as well as his composure with the promise of satisfaction, of relief even in the shadow of defeat. He reaches for revulsion, imagines himself back in the locker room, on his knees maybe, mouth open to take the bitter, sweat-salt of a cock over his tongue, and he shudders with the image, the edge of pleasure retreating for the span of another stroke. He blinks hard, refocuses on Ohira’s cock instead, and this is better, the tremor in the other’s legs is much better to look at than thinking of the ache in his own. He can see how to turn his hand, can frame his movement to the twitch of Ohira’s length, and this way he can pull the image up clear in his mind, can see the way Ohira would look standing over him, with a hand in his hair to brace him steady against the intrusion of his cock sliding into Onishi’s mouth. Onishi can taste the salt on his tongue, can imagine the heat against the back of his throat, and he can picture Ohira reciprocating too, can see the way he’d push Onishi’s knees apart to fit his mouth to the other’s stomach, to bite friction there before lapping the wet drag of his tongue over Onishi’s cock. Onishi can feel the scratch of Ohira’s hair against the inside of his thighs, can feel the way Ohira’s mouth would tighten on him as he sucked the weight of the other’s cock over his tongue to bump at the back of his throat, and then he realizes his mistake just as the wave of heat in him surges higher with all the gleeful ferocity of too-long denial.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he groans, his voice going so low he can taste the shadows on the back of his tongue. “I’m--”

“ _Coming_ ,” Ohira blurts, a desperate wail of sound, and his cock jerks in Onishi’s hold, come spurting hot over the other’s fingers. Onishi can feel the heat of victory in him, the rush of satisfaction that comes with winning -- except it’s not victory crashing over him but his orgasm, he’s shuddering into relief as he pulses a rush of come onto Ohira’s dragging thumb. There’s one wave of sensation, another, three in a row, and Onishi is shaking, clinging to Ohira’s shoulder to keep his feet as his knees shake and his cock keeps twitching with a new surge of pleasure just as the last one eases. Ohira’s gasping, he sounds like he can’t breathe right, and Onishi’s hand is sticky and he can’t stop moving, the rhythm of his motion is too well-formed to stall for the convulsive waves of orgasm tearing through him. Ohira’s free hand is gripping his hip, bruising force against the skin, but Onishi barely notices; the pain is at a distance, as far-off as the humid heat in the air he’s breathing and the danger of collapse his shaking legs put him in. He doesn’t need air, doesn’t need his balance; as long as his endless orgasm has him in its grip, he lacks the strength to care about anything else.

They’re both still moving when the crest of pleasure finally ebbs. Onishi’s stroking idly over Ohira’s softening cock, his movements off-rhythm and vague; Ohira is more deliberate about his, but even when he digs his thumb in under the head of Onishi’s cock the most the other can give him is a faint tremor of reaction, all his strength carried away by the satisfaction of the pleasure in his body.

“I won,” Ohira manages, his voice dropping out of the high catch of pleasure and into his more usual low range as he stops moving and unfolds his fingers from the weight of Onishi’s fading erection.

Onishi blinks. His glasses are blurry, smeared from pressing too close to the sweat-damp of Ohira’s forehead; when he pulls back the haze distracts his vision, makes it hard to see the color of Ohira’s dark eyes. “No,” he says, letting his own sticky hold go. “You started coming before I did.”

“You were already there,” Ohira insists. “It was you jerking forward when you came that set me off.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Onishi tells him, drawing his desperate hold on Ohira’s shoulder away so he can adjust his glasses back into place. “I’m sure you were first.”

“I’m sure _you_ were,” Ohira growls. His eyes are very dark, the color of the irises nearly hidden by the pleasure-dark pupils until they match the shadow of his lashes. “You ought to at least accept defeat gracefully.”

Onishi tips his head back to offer Ohira as much haughty disapproval as he can manage. “We’ll have to have a rematch,” he announces. “It’s the only way to be sure.”

“Fine,” Ohira snaps. “When? Tomorrow?”

“Right now,” Onishi tells him, feeling his body ache protest at this offer even as he makes it. “Unless you don’t think you can get hard again so soon.”

Ohira’s eyes narrow. “I can get hard faster than you can.”

“Nonsense,” Onishi tells him, reaching for the sticky weight of his cock as blood rushes through him to swell him back towards arousal again. It’ll be a while before he can come, but that’s just to his advantage under the circumstances. “I bet I’ll be hard first _and_ I’ll suck you off before you make me come.”

“Bullshit,” Ohira tells him. His fingers are closing around his cock, stroking roughly over the sticky skin; Onishi can see the other going hard against the resistance of his own fingers. “You’ll take that back when you’re coming down my throat.”

“Fuck,” Onishi says, and grabs at Ohira’s shoulder again to brace himself. “You’re on.”

Strangely, the possibility of losing doesn’t seem all that terrible at the moment.


End file.
